


Helping Hands

by vanillalime



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Community: hardtime100, Guilt, Halloween Challenge, Multi, Spooky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-06-03 10:59:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6608176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillalime/pseuds/vanillalime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A spooky story for Halloween in which Vern Schillinger faces the repercussions of Gary Beecher's murder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Helping Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Set during the middle of Season 4. Canon up to that point, then AU.  
> Some slight adjustments were made in the timeline of minor canon events for dramatic purposes.
> 
> Originally posted to LiveJournal in October 2013. Written for the Hardtime100 challenge prompt "Holiday in Hell."

Vern Schillinger was feeling pretty good these days.

Not only had his Hank managed to walk away from those troublesome murder and kidnapping charges, but he’d actually seemed interested in re-establishing a real father/son relationship once he returned from Florida.  In addition, the two people that had caused Vern the most misery in Oz were at each other’s throats and absolutely miserable themselves:  Tobias Beecher was caught up in a sad, warped cycle of self-loathing, and Chris Keller was a deceptively-contained raging monster just waiting to be unleashed.

To top everything off, Hank’s wife, Carrie, had introduced herself by announcing the news of his impending grandfatherhood.  Faced with the prospect of a Schillinger legacy, Vern was as close to content as he had been in years.

So, when the Rev. Cloutier promised him that a closer relationship with God would bring about actual  _happiness_ , Vern decided to take the proverbial leap of faith.  To help demonstrate his willingness to change, he asked Sister Pete for reconciliation sessions with Beecher.  Vern pledged to himself that nothing but positive interactions between the two of them would take place from now on.

Back in his cell after the first session, Vern tried to explain his reasoning to his cellmate.  “I honestly think I might be better off with a little less hate in my life.”

“But hate is what we do best,” Robson countered.

Vern shook his head.  “I don’t want to worry about looking at Hank and his new family someday, only to be reminded of Tobias Beecher and his family.”  He smiled.  “I’m going to be responsible for stopping this cycle of violence between us, and God will reward me with happiness.”

Vern felt a warm, tickling sensation along his ribcage.  He responded with a giggle, then an out-right laugh, and Robson looked at him in shock, wondering if it was possible that Vern was losing his mind.

*****

It didn’t take long for Vern’s good intentions to go straight to hell.

Carrie came to Oz regularly to visit, and she constantly moaned and fretted about Hank:  where he was, what he was doing, when he would be back, IF he would be back.  Her doubts about Hank began to eat away at Vern.  He didn’t know the answers to those questions any more than she did, and it was becoming more difficult to maintain a positive outlook.

Then he learned of the details of Carrie and Hank’s relationship, that she had been a whore pimped out by Hank for drug money.  Vern’s supposed grandbaby might not be of his blood after all, might not even be white.  The more Vern thought about it, the angrier he got.  He wanted to talk to Hank and get some of this shit straightened out.  He really wished there was someone who knew where Hank was, and how to reach him.

 _God only knows what that kid might be up to_ , Vern worried.

He decided to skip out on his next scheduled session with Sister Pete and Beecher.  Normally, seeing Beecher’s sorrowful face and listening to his pathetic tales of woe made him feel better.  But he was concerned that, sooner or later, Beecher would bring up his young, innocent son, and Vern didn't think he could stomach the inevitable comparisons to Hank.

“Maybe these sessions are a waste of time,” Vern said to Robson.  “Just because I made a promise to God not to hurt Beecher, doesn’t mean I need to talk to him.”

“He’ll never be anything but a prag,” Robson commented.  “He’s not worthy of your time or your attention.”

“You’re right,” Vern nodded.  “I’m done with these sessions.  Beecher can go to hell, I just won’t be the one to send him there.”

As Robson laughed, Vern suddenly felt something creeping up his spine.  He turned away from Robson and barked, “Hey, get that bug off my back!”

Robson looked at Vern’s back and saw nothing, but brushed it off anyway.  He figured this probably wasn’t a good time to tell Vern he was imagining things.

*****

Vern was in a frenzy.

He had heard the rumors of Keller moving back into Beecher’s pod, but he had refused to believe that they had actually patched things up again.  He had been confident that there was an alternative explanation.  That is, until today, when he had seen them making out  _(like a couple of goddamn teenagers!)_  as he was delivering the mail in Em City.

Vern had quickly alerted the hacks.  They broke Beecher and Keller apart, but the two of them had acted like they didn’t care, like they were in their own little world, and  _Beecher wouldn’t wipe that fucking grin off his face_.

Obviously, something had happened to bring them back together.  And it pissed Vern off.

Later at dinner, Vern watched them together.  Beecher actually looked  _happy_.  It was wrong.

_Oh, so wrong._

Vern was the one who was supposed to be happy.  He had made a good faith effort to be a better a man, and here God was kicking him in the gut.  The one person who was supposed to be a miserable fuck had stolen his happiness.  Something needed to be done about that.

“Beecher needs to be brought back down to earth,” he seethed to Robson that night.  “It’s no good fucking with him in here… I think someone needs to pay his family a visit.  Blow up their car, burn down their house, kill the family pet, something.”

“No!” Robson shook his head vehemently.  “No hurting pets!”

“Yeah, okay, we won’t go that far.  But I’m going to track Hank down.  I don’t care what it involves, I’m finding him, and together we’re going to make sure Beecher goes back to feeling how he should.  My Hank will know the best thing to do.”

Vern stretched out on his bed, calming himself into sleep by thinking of all the possible ways he could hurt Beecher.

When he awoke the next morning, the first thing he noticed was a painful, burning sensation along his arms.  He looked and saw three deep scratches down the length of each arm, bright red blood oozing out and smeared into his sheets and T-shirt.

“What the fuck is this?” he yelled.  He got up and grabbed ahold of Robson and shook him.  “You did this to me?  You sliced me up?  What the hell for?”

Robson, dazed and confused, denied any knowledge as to the cause of Vern’s bloody arms.  When Vern continued to shake and yell at him, Robson pushed him away.  With uncanny timing, a guard walking by witnessed their altercation.  Quickly sizing up the situation, the guard sent Robson to the hole and Vern to the infirmary.

As Vern was receiving treatment for his scratches, Warden Glynn came in to see him.  And he informed Vern of what had really become of Hank.

*****

Vern spent the rest of the day alone in his cell, an emotional basket case.

The predominant emotion, the one that continuously rose to the surface, was anger.  Most of that anger was directed at the one person who he was certain was responsible for Hank’s death:  Tobias Beecher.  Vern’s hatred of the man was all-encompassing, overriding the grief he felt from the loss of his son.

But Vern was also angry at God Himself.  He had promised to do right by God, but God must not have given a shit.  God played favorites, and apparently Beecher was the winner.  It wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair, and Vern no longer cared to play by God’s rules.

Vern only cared about revenge.  And there was only one form of revenge worth considering.

Beecher needed to again feel the same pain that Vern felt.  The loss of another child was the only suitable punishment for him.  An eye for an eye, a daughter for his son.

That night, the wheels in Vern’s brain churned as he put a plan together.  All it would take to put his plan in motion was one phone call, one that he would make as soon as he could the next morning.  There were a number of people, his type of people, that would be happy to lend him a hand and help him out.

Lying in bed, preparing a mental checklist for the necessary steps to be taken, an exhausted Vern drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

*****

Vern was awakened in the middle of the night by a bright light shining directly in his eyes.

Squinting, he looked up into the face of a young boy dressed in flowing white robes, holding a lit torch in one hand.  The illumination from the torch’s flame cast an eerie glow across the soft features of the boy’s face.  Vern stared, transfixed, and took note of the blue eyes and the pert, upturned nose.

_Jesus Fucking Christ, he knew where that nose came from._

The boy looked at him somberly, tilting his small, blond head to the side in a gesture of silent contemplation.

Vern knew that he had to be dreaming.  He lay there and returned the boy’s gaze with a sneer.  He wondered how long it would be until he woke up.

Then Vern felt the hands.  Cold and clammy, strong and solid.  There were only two at first, pressing down on his chest, but they multiplied quickly, growing in strength as well as numbers….

Vern tried to move, to sit up, but the hands on his chest and shoulders pinned him down.  He began to kick his legs, only to feel hands quickly seize his thighs and calves.  As another hand cupped his balls and twisted, Vern cried out and frantically waved his arms, the only part of him still free.  He tried to pull the hands off of him, but the only thing he managed to grab was the fabric of his t-shirt, now damp with sweat.  Suddenly, he lost all awareness of his arms.

Vern’s heart raced, and he was consumed by panic.  He opened his mouth to yell for help, only to feel two more hands clutching at his throat, cutting the sound off.  He spun his neck from side to side, trying to break away from them, but the hands responded accordingly by tightening their grip.

And then they began to squeeze.

Vern choked and sputtered.  Turning his head, he made eye contact with the young boy, momentarily forgotten by Vern in his struggles.  The boy simply stood there, watching.  Waiting.

Vern summoned all his internal strength, and managed to gasp at the boy.

_“Help.”_

The boy’s eyes widened and his mouth drew up in a slow, small smile.  He spoke for the first time:

“Why?  Do you need a hand?” he asked in a small, quiet voice, the shadows from his torch dancing around his apparition.

Vern, pleading with his eyes, watched as Gary Beecher raised the bloody stump of his other arm into the light of his torch.  "That's too bad," he continued.  "I’m afraid I don’t have one to spare.”

The hands around Vern's throat tightened further, crushing his airway completely, and stayed there, until Vern knew no more.

*****

Warden Glynn hurried over to Vern’s bed and bent down in order to take a closer look.  He quickly turned back to the guards on duty, his expression equal parts disgust and anger.  "Explain to me how the fuck this happened!"

“Well, he was pretty upset when he found out about his son’s death.”

"I didn't ask  _why_  this happened, I asked  _how_  it happened.”

“No one knows!  Everything was fine at lights out, but he wouldn’t come out for count this morning.  We checked on him, and this is exactly how we found him:  his hands around his neck with his tongue hanging out.”

Glynn shook his head and looked back at Vern’s body.  "Who knew it was even possible for a man to strangle himself to death?” he muttered.

Everyone was quiet for moment, until one of the guards finally asked, "Is that a rhetorical question?”

Glynn rolled his eyes.  “Get out of my way.  You wouldn’t believe the shitload of paperwork I'm going to have to do now.”

*****

Rebadow slowly placed his breakfast tray down on the table across from Beecher and Keller and took his seat.

“Did you hear?” he asked them.  “Vern Schillinger is dead.  Suicide.  Asphyxiation of some kind.”

“No shit!” Keller replied, a look of surprise on his face.

Rebadow shrugged as he salted his scrambled eggs.  “That’s the official story, anyway.”

Toby glanced over at the table where the Aryans were sitting.  Seeing their hushed whispering and frantic looks of confusion, he judged the rumor to be true.

“Huh,” was all he said.

But he exchanged a look with Chris, and Toby silently questioned him by raising an eyebrow.  Chris subtly shook his head in denial as he struggled to regain a look of neutral indifference.

Toby closed his eyes, clasped his hands together under the table, and said a silent prayer of thanks.  To whom, he wasn't entirely sure, but he thought it was the right thing to do.  He felt a furtive hand covering his thumbs, and it quickly gave them a strong, reassuring squeeze in an act of both comfort and celebration.  The hand slowly moved away, and Toby opened his eyes and looked at Chris with a smile, appreciative of his support.  The bumpy road that was their relationship suddenly looked a lot smoother.

Toby was too distracted by the grin and wink that Chris gave him in return to notice that Chris had been using both of his hands to peel an orange.


End file.
